


May - December

by shadowen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, Deaf Clint Barton, Family, First Time, Growing Up Together, M/M, Reading Aloud, Virgin Clint Barton, a little bit of everything fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wonder, sometimes, how things might have been different if you and I had grown up together.”</p>
<p>This is how the story goes, or how it would have gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May - December

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Double Barrel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059055) by [shadowen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen). 



> Based on Phil's daydream universe from "Double Barrel", which can be read independent from the rest of the _Line of Sight_ series.
> 
> Many many thanks to mockingbird212 for the beta.
> 
> **WARNING** for references to child abuse.

**May, 1984**

The old garage at the end of the block is dank and dirty, but Phil likes it. Enough light comes in through the greasy windows for him to read by, and the smell of sawdust and oil clings to his clothes enough to mask the smell of his cigarettes. Most of the neighborhood kids are afraid of him, so he’s always left to read and smoke in peace.

He’s halfway through a chapter before he realizes there’s someone else there.

The noise is soft and muffled, but Phil is familiar with the sound of someone very small trying very hard not to cry. He remembers grade school, after all.

Still holding his paperback and half-finished cigarette, he pulls back the drop cloth that hangs over the old workbench and finds himself confronted with a pair of enormous blue eyes in a pale, dirty face.

“I’m sorry,” the little boy whimpers. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Phil asks, startled, and the boy flinches.

“Hiding. I was hiding, and you came in, and I didn’t know what to do so I kept hiding.” He inches away, keeping himself small and as far from Phil as he can get. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave. Please don’t hurt me.”

“What?” The kid can’t be more than four or five, and, Phil realizes, he’s terrified. Slowly, Phil sits down in front of him and says gently, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not. I promise.”

The boy blinks back at him, sniffling. Some of the marks on his arms aren’t dirt, Phil sees; they’re bruises.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says again. “I’m Phil. What’s your name?”

Wiping his face with the back of his hand, the boy answers quietly, “Clint.”

Phil smiles, and the boy smiles back, just a little. “Hi, Clint. Who are you hiding from?”

Unexpectedly, Clint’s face darkens, and he looks away. Phil’s experience with small children is mostly limited to the unpleasant period in which he was one, so he’s at a bit of a loss. Still, he’s working off the assumption that treating the kid like a person is probably the best approach.

“It’s okay. I’m hiding, too,” he says, and the huge blue eyes get even wider.

“Who are _you_ hiding from?”

Phil shrugs. “Everybody, really. The world, in general.” Clint gives a little hiccupping giggle at that, and Phil chalks it up as a point in his favor. “How old are you?”

“Five,” Clint says with the whisper of pride inherent in all five-year-olds announcing their age. “How old are _you_?”

“I’m fourteen.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

“Wow.”

Most of the terror has gone from his face, and now he just looks lost and lonely. “You don’t have to hide down there,” Phil tells him. “You can come sit with me, if you want.”

The last of the fear goes, replaced by uncertainty and a flicker of hope. “I can?”

Most of the kids Phil knows are loud and spoiled and tend to run the other way when they see him, if they’re not too busy throwing things. Something about this kid charms him instantly, and he smiles. “Sure. I’m just reading a book. You like to read?”

Clint shakes his head. “Too dumb to read. But I like stories.”

Phil’s smile fades a little, but he keeps it up. “You want me to read to you? It’s a good story.”

After a moment, Clint nods, and Phil moves back so that he can crawl out. He’s too small to climb up on the workbench, so Phil lifts him up and they settle hip to hip under the streaky window. Phil’s read the book before, and he’s happy to flip back to the beginning and start over.

“The primroses were over,” he reads, and Clint leans in.

“What’s a primrose?”

“It’s a flower.”

“What’s it look like?”

“It...” Phil hesitates. “I don’t know. I guess it’s a kind of rose.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Phil glances at Clint, who gives him a pleased smile, and he reads on, “Towards the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch b-”

“What’s brambly mean?”

It’s a long book, and they don’t finish until summer. When it’s over, Phil lets Clint keep the book, and they start on another.

 

**December, 1986**

Forever after, they will laugh about how Clint killed his first Christmas tree, and Clint will roll his eyes and say the tree had it coming. At the time, no one thinks it’s very funny.

Phil’s house is pretty much the best place Clint’s ever been, and he’s convinced that Phil’s pop, Mr. Leroy, is the best dad anybody could have. So, when Mr. Leroy asks if him and Barney want to have Christmas with them, Clint’s so happy he could burst. When they get to the house that afternoon, he’s not disappointed.

It looks the way he thinks Christmas is supposed to, with a tree and lights and presents, and Clint bounces on his feet with excitement as Phil helps him out of his coat.

“Did you get any presents? What did you get? Is it cool? Can I see?” he asks, and Phil smiles.

“I’ll show you later, okay? Let’s eat first.”

Clint’s almost jumping up and down, because the only thing that can make this _any_ better is food. “What are we gonna eat? Is it gonna be like on TV where there’s a whole bunch of, like, old timey foods and stuff like that?”

Barney hits the back of his head. “Don’t be annoying or you’re not gonna get any.”

“There’s plenty for everybody, annoying or not,” Phil says. Clint sticks his tongue out at Barney, but Phil pokes him in the stomach. “ _But_ , you’ve got to be nice to each other, okay?”

Clint nods. “Okay.”

“Sorry,” Barney says, and Phil ruffles his hair, grinning. Which Barney hates, but he doesn’t seem to mind when Phil does it. Clint figures that’s because Phil is the nicest, coolest, smartest, handsomest person either of them knows, maybe in the whole world.

The food is _exactly_ like on TV, except that most of it comes out of cans, and the people on TV never have maccaroni. Clint eats so much that his stomach hurts, and there’s still a lot left for Phil and Mr. Leroy to cover up and put away for later. He remembers his manners in time to say “Thank you” when Mr. Leroy hands him a piece of pie and says they can have dessert in the living room while they open presents.

He sits on the floor next to Barney while Phil starts picking up presents from under the tree. He can’t _wait_ to see what everybody got.

“Okay, so these two are for Barney,” Phil says, holding out two boxes of different sizes.

Barney doesn’t take them at first, frowning. “Really?” he asks, and Phil nods. “Um, thanks.”

He takes the boxes and sits staring at them, and Clint elbows him. “Open ‘em! I wanna see.”

“Well, there’s some here for you, too,” Phil says, shuffling packages until he picks up a long box wrapped in purple striped paper. “Here’s one of them. Pop, what happened t-”

“What’s that?” Clint asks. Phil’s holding the box out toward him, and it doesn’t make sense.

From the couch, Mr. Leroy laughs. “Well, I don’t know. Santa left it for you.” Usually, Clint likes it when Mr. Leroy laughs, but now it feels like he’s laughing at Clint.

“Santa only brings presents for good kids,” Clint says. He might be dumb, but he knows that much. 

Mr. Leroy and Phil both stop smiling, and Clint can tell he’s done something wrong. His face is getting hot, and he wants to go somewhere else so they won’t be upset anymore.

Barney elbows him in the side, hard enough that it hurts. “Don’t be a butt. Just take it.”

“What if it’s not mine? What if Santa messed up?” Clint doesn’t want to take someone else’s present. He doesn’t want something he’s not supposed to have.

“It’s not from Santa, dummy.”

“Barney!” Mr. Leroy snaps, and now he’s mad at Barney and it’s Clint’s fault.

Phil edges closer to Clint, still holding out the box. “No, it’s okay. It’s from us,” he says. “It’s for you. I picked it out.”

“I don’t want it,” Clint tells him. He balls his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, and everybody’s upset and looking at him and he doesn’t know what to do.

“It’s okay, Clint. It’s yours,” Phil says. He’s frowning, and Clint feels sick in his stomach because he’s made Phil upset.

Clint backs away, scrambling to his feet. He just wants to go somewhere else, but Barney grabs at his sleeve, snapping, “Cut it out, butthead!”

“I don’t want it!” Clint says again. He jerks away, but Barney holds on. Clint pulls again, harder, and he stumbles as his sleeve comes loose from Barney’s hand.

The needles of the tree hurt as they prick him, but what he hates most is the sound. It seems like all the ornaments are breaking, and all the presents are being crushed as the tree falls on top of them. Clint gets tangled in the strings of lights and goes down hard, catching his foot on the sharp edge of the tree stand.

For a second, nobody moves, and Clint is alone in silence with his shock. Then everyone reacts at once.

Phil and Mr. Leroy both reach out toward Clint, and he tries to curl himself into a ball so it won’t hurt as much. Barney moves, too, rushing to get in front of them. “It’s not his fault! It was me. I pushed him. He didn’t mean to.”

Phil stops, but Mr. Leroy reaches around Barney, asking, “Clint, are you okay?”

Hitting Mr. Leroy’s hand away, Barney scrambles back so fast that he trips and falls on to the tree, nearly sitting on top of Clint. “Stop! Don’t hurt him. It’s not his fault.”

He doesn’t want them to hurt Barney, either, but he’s still shaking from the fall, so Clint just holds on to Barney’s shirt and waits for it to be over.

Mr. Leroy steps back. “Nobody’s gonna hurt anybody,” he says gently, sitting back onto the couch. “I promise. Me and PJ would never hurt either of you, Barney. You know that.”

He looks sad, but Phil still looks angry. Quietly, Clint mumbles, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“We know you didn’t. It was an accident. You’re not in trouble,” Mr. Leroy says. 

Slowly, Barney puts his hands down, but he doesn’t move away from Clint. Over his shoulder, Clint looks at Phil. “Please don’t be mad?”

Phil blinks, like he didn’t know he was scowling, like he doesn’t know that he’s scary when he’s angry. “I’m not... I’m not mad at you,” he says, but he doesn’t say who he _is_ mad at.

Now that he’s sure he’s not in trouble, Clint feels stupid for acting like a rotten little kid. Even if he was supposed to have the present before, he definitely doesn’t deserve it now.

“PJ, why don’t you make us some hot chocolates?” Mr. Leroy says. “Barney, would you get the broom out of the closet and help me clean this up?”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says as everyone starts moving again.

Phil holds out his hands to help Clint up, smiling. “Come on. You wanna help me in the kitchen?”

Clint hesitates, then nods and lets Phil pull him up. Pain shoots across the bottom of his foot as he stands, and he tries not to make a sound as he trails after Phil into the kitchen. Phil puts the kettle on the stove and directs Clint into a chair. Grabbing a dish towel, he starts dusting tree needles off of Clint’s clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says again, and Phil sighs.

“You didn’t do anything.” He catches sight of Clint’s foot and frowns. “Looks like you got a cut.”

“It doesn’t hurt bad,” Clint tells him, but Phil gets a damp cloth and a bandaid, anyway. The cut hurts, but it tickles when Phil smoothes the bandaid over it.

“Better?” Phil asks, and Clint nods.

“Did you really get me a present?”

Phil grins. “Wrapped it myself.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says. “But you’re gonna love it, I promise.”

“Okay.”

Phil stays kneeling on the floor, looking up at Clint. “Maybe next year you can help us pick out the tree. We can get a little one that won’t fall over as easy.”

That makes Clint’s chest feel bright and warm. “Really?”

“Really really.”

“Okay.” Clint smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

Phil smiles back. “Merry Christmas.”

When the presents finally get unwrapped, they each have two. Barney gets a new winter coat and a junior detective kit, which he immediately puts to use by trying to clip the plastic handcuffs around Clint’s wrists. Clint gets a box of books, which Phil promises to read to him, and a beginner’s archery set containing a quiver of plastic arrows and a small, simple bow.

 

**May, 1987**

The call comes in the middle of the night, and Phil arrives at the hospital in pajamas and rain boots. 

There was water on the road. The car hit a tree. The adults were dead on arrival.

No one came for the boys until Barney woke up and told them to call pop.

When Phil gets there, pop is with Barney, holding his hand and talking quietly. They both give Phil thin, exhausted smiles, and pop holds out his arm for a hug.

Phil sits down on the end of the bed. It’s small, a child’s bed, and Barney’s almost too tall for it. “How are you doing?”

“I broke my arm.” Barney holds up his fresh white cast. “And I hit my head. I’m okay, though.”

“This one’s tough. He’ll be fine,” pop says. He starts to say something else, stops, and tells Phil gently, “Clint’s in surgery.”

Phil opens his mouth and closes it again. There are words and questions and things Phil needs to know, and he can’t get his head around any of it. Pop knows what he wants to ask, though.

“I’m not... I’m not family, so they won’t tell me, but they said he’s not in any danger.” He shakes his head, tears caught in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, PJ. That’s all I know.”

Phil nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do. The end of an IV tube is taped to Barney’s bony arm. They’ve always been too skinny, Phil thinks, no matter how much pop feeds them.

“What’s gonna... I mean, do you have... any family?” Phil asks Barney. He can’t find it in himself to be sorry that their despicable father and disinterested mother are gone, but he knows it can get worse. It can always get worse.

Barney shakes his head. “Leroy said...” He looks at pop, uncertain, and pop nods. “He said maybe we can stay with him for a little while.”

“Your dad’s trying to manage a paperwork miracle,” pop says, and the sick, twisting feeling in Phil’s stomach starts to ease for the first time since he got the call. 

“Is there a chance?”

Pop smiles. “We make our own chances.”

It’s another two hours before anyone will tell them anything about Clint, and the duty nurse threatens twice to have Phil removed from the premises if he doesn’t stop asking. In the end, the doctor comes in to say that Clint is stable but he still can’t tell them anything, and Barney, unintimidated, patiently explains that the doctor can tell _him_ and that pop and Phil can listen. 

There’s good news and bad news.

The good news is good, is great, is that Clint is whole and strong and fine, and the relief in Phil’s chest is painful.

The bad news... Well, Phil volunteers to give Clint the bad news.

Clint’s confused when he wakes up, lost and scared, but Phil is there, has been sitting there for an hour. 

Clint blinks. Sees Phil. Blinks again. Smiles. Rubs at his eyes. Frowns. “Phil?”

His frown deepens, and Phil has to catch his hands before he can grab at the bandages covering his ears.

“Phil?” His voice is loud and shaking. “I can’t hear anything.” Louder. “How come I can’t hear anything?”

Phil reaches for the notepad on which he has already written, _There was an accident. Do you remember?_ but Clint is still trying to tear off the bandages.

“What’s wrong?” he’s shouting. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I hear anything?”

“It’s okay. Clint, calm down. It’s okay.” Phil grabs both of his hands and looks him in the eye.

He’s so little and his hands are so small and he’s so scared, and Phil wants to tear apart the universe for being so obscenely fucking unfair.

“It’s okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” He keeps talking, and, slowly, the wide blue eyes focus on his face, on his mouth, on the shape of the words. Slowly, Clint starts to breathe.

“Okay?” Phil asks, and, after a second, Clint nods.

Phil holds up the notepad. Clint’s eyes are still hazy, and it takes a moment for him to make out the words. He looks up at Phil and shakes his head. “What happened?”

Phil takes a marker and writes quickly, _The car crashed. You got hurt._

Clint scowls, like he’s angry at the memory for not staying in his head. “Is everybody else okay?” he asks, still too loud, and Phil sits back, stunned.

Nine years-old, traumatized, and he wants to know if everyone else is okay. 

_Barney’s hurt but not bad, _he writes, and Clint nods when he sees it. Phil turns the notepad back around and hesitates. The words won’t be soft or kind, no matter what they are, so he writes as simply as he can and takes Clint’s hand before showing him the page.__

___Your mom and dad are gone. I’m sorry._ _ _

__Clint sits staring for a long moment, silent and unblinking. Then he takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, like he’s breathing out something that’s been trapped inside his chest. He looks up and meets Phil’s eye. “Are they gonna take me away?”_ _

__Phil can’t lie, and he knows Clint doesn’t want him to, so he tightens his grip on Clint’s hand and tells him the truth._ _

__“I’m going to look out for you.” He speaks slowly, clearly, shaping the words so that Clint can see them. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here, okay? Right here.”_ _

__Clint starts crying, then, quiet little sobs that shake his narrow shoulders, and Phil climbs onto the bed and holds him until he falls asleep._ _

__In the end, dad does manage a miracle, somehow, and pop gives Phil a put-upon look as they haul the old bedframe out of Phil’s room to make space for the new bunk beds._ _

__“When I said I missed you living at home, I wasn’t asking God to send me a pair of replacements.”_ _

__Phil shrugs. “On the plus side, they’ll probably be better behaved than I was.”_ _

__“Probably,” he says, and Phil laughs._ _

__

__**December, 1992** _ _

__They take his hearing aids, which is just insult to injury, as far as Clint’s concerned, but he manages to beg, plead, and guilt a desk officer into making his phone call for him. The next three hours pass in a cell crowded with other boys and men, most of whom are in one altered state or another. One of them tries to hassle Clint; only one, and only once._ _

__Eventually, a boy around Clint’s age pushes through the crowd to tell Clint that somebody’s here for him. Clint can’t hear him, but he can tell the kid is shouting and rolls his eyes as heads turn toward him._ _

__His annoyance evaporates into relief when he gets to the front of the cell and sees Phil standing with the officer. The relief, of course, turns quickly into shame when he catches Phil’s eye and gets a hard, cold look._ _

__Phil doesn’t say or sign a word to him until they’re in the car, driving toward the city, and Phil asks stiffly, “Are you okay?”_ _

__Clint expected a lot of questions, but not that one. “Yeah. Fine.”_ _

__“They didn’t hurt you or mess with you at all?"_ _

__"No. I mean, I'm kinda pissed they took my ears, but that's it."_ _

__Phil nods, then says, slowly and deliberately, "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"_ _

__Clint sinks down in the passenger seat, mumbling, "Sorry."_ _

__" _Were_ you thinking?" Phil goes on. Clint's seen him angrier, but not by much. "Did you honestly think you could walk out of the store with two bottles in your pockets, and no one would notice?"_ _

__"I said I was sorry," Clint snaps. "I fucked up, okay? _Once._ How many times did you get arrested in high school?"_ _

__Phil glances at him in disbelief. "You think I'm mad because you got arrested? Clint, those stores keep guns under the counter. What if the clerk thought you looked dangerous? Or what if the cop decided you needed to be taught a lesson?"_ _

__Clint crosses his arms and stares down at his shoes. Phil being angry is one thing; worried is a little harder to swallow. "Nothing happened," he grumbles._ _

__Phil gives him another hard look and sighs. "Is pop expecting you home?"_ _

__For a second, Clint thinks about not answering, about spending the rest of the drive in silence. “No. I was supposed to go to a party and stay at Dukwon’s.”_ _

__“Then you have two choices,” Phil says. “I can take you home, and I’ll back up whatever story you want to tell. Or you can stay with me tonight, and I’ll drive you back in the morning, at which point you’ll tell pop the truth. It’s your call.”_ _

__Clint wants to drop down between the cushion of the car seat and disappear like a handful of loose change and gum wrappers. Only Phil would turn this into some kind of bullshit ethics lesson. Barney would have given him a lecture, and Leroy would have just said how _disappointed_ he was._ _

__But Clint didn’t call them. He didn’t call his big brother or his adopted father to come bail him out; he called his hero to come rescue him._ _

__“I can wait ‘til tomorrow,” he says quietly, and Phil nods._ _

__There’s a crack in the corner of the windshield that catches the glare from the streetlights. Clint thinks it’s from the time someone threw a rock at the car, but it might be from something else._ _

__After a moment, Phil tells him, “Y’know, when I got the call from the police, and they said it was about you... Christ, my heart stopped.”_ _

__Clint flinches. “I’m sorry.”_ _

__"Just... please don't pull that shit ever again," Phil says. "Get your alcohol with a fake ID like everybody else."_ _

__"Yeah," Clint replies. Phil raises an eyebrow, and Clint rolls his eyes. "No more shoplifting. Scout's honor."_ _

__For the first time, Phil's face softens into a small smile, and Clint feels even worse. Because Phil will always come when he calls, will always rescue him and forgive him and look out for him, and Clint doesn't know how to live up to that or what to do with the way it makes his stomach twist._ _

__"Thanks for bailing me out," he says._ _

__Phil's smile widens. "I'd say _anytime_ , but I'm really hoping I won't have to do this again."_ _

__Clint snorts. "Seeing as Leroy's probably gonna ground me forever, I don't think you will."_ _

__"You severely underestimate the temptation of sneaking out," Phil says, and it's Clint's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Not that I would condone that in any way."_ _

__"Uh huh."_ _

__"Just stay out of trouble."_ _

__"Sure thing, PJ."_ _

__Phil punches him in the shoulder, and Clint laughs._ _

__It's not the last time Clint gets arrested, and it's not the last time Phil saves him. It is, however, the last time Clint gets grounded._ _

__

__**December, 1998** _ _

__Phil hates being sick. _Hates_ it. He hates the way his head feels fuzzy and his whole body aches and he can’t breathe or taste anything. He hates not having anything to do but lie on the couch and watch TV, especially when the TV makes his headache worse and all he can do is nap._ _

__The front door closing wakes him out of a miserable doze, and he lifts his head as Clint comes into the apartment._ _

__“That’s exactly where you were when I left.”_ _

__“Think I might’ve moved an inch or two,” Phil mumbles, sitting up despite the urge to nuzzle back down into his nest of blankets. The clock on the VCR reads 7:42, which means he’s slept away the evening._ _

__One of the fantastic things about having Clint as a roommate, Phil has learned, is that lawyers and college students keep very similar hours. The downside is that those hours are insane, and neither of them is able to keep any real sense of time, even when they’re not sick._ _

__“Feeling any better?”_ _

__Phil tries to breathe in, and it feels like something is rattling in his sinuses. “Not really.”_ _

__Clint makes a sympathetic face. “Poor baby. Do you need some chicken noodle soup?”_ _

__“Watch it. I’m not too sick t- to k-” The rest of the sentence is lost as Phil sneezes into a tissue._ _

__“God, you’re pitiful,” Clint says, and Phil’s too busy blowing his nose to argue. “Seriously, though. Have you eaten anything?”_ _

__“No.” He probably should, but the thought of food makes him feel like a school of minnows is fighting a battle royale in his stomach. "How was dinner?"_ _

__Clint hesitates. "Good. It was good. Leroy was disappointed you weren't there." He holds up a hand before Phil can protest. "He gets _why_. He just missed you."_ _

__"I wish I could have gone," Phil says. There may not be many more birthday dinners for pop. There may not be _any_ more. "Did he say how he‘s doing? I can never get a straight answer out of him or dad."_ _

__The pause is longer, this time, filled with the sounds of Clint rustling in the kitchen. "He's... not good. Leroy doesn’t wanna say anything, but Barney said the chemo’s not working. They’re talking about stopping treatment and just... y’know. Letting it go.”_ _

__The fact that he’s not surprised doesn’t make it feel any less like Phil’s been punched in the gut. His head throbs, and he rubs his hands over his face, trying to breathe. He looks up again as Clint comes around the couch and sets a bowl of rice and a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Clint says gently, settling onto the couch by Phil’s feet._ _

__Phil sighs. “I just... I can’t think about it, right now. It’s too much.”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__Clint shoves his bare feet under the edge of Phil’s blankets, and his toes brush the bottoms of Phil’s feet. They’re cold, but it’s soothing, somehow. Phil takes the bowl of rice and wriggles down into his nest. Even the bland rice sits uneasily on his stomach, but he makes himself eat as Clint smiles and reaches for the book on the table._ _

__"That kinda day, huh?"_ _

__It's a familiar paperback with a cover creased by years of use. It stays on the shelf, most of the time, but there've been days, lately, when Phil needed its comfort._ _

__"My head hurts too much to read," he says. "But... yeah. That kind of day."_ _

__"That sucks," Clint says, flipping open the book. He leans back on the couch and stretches out his legs next to Phil's under the pile of blankets. "You want a good part or from the beginning?"_ _

__Phil sets aside his bowl and picks up the mug of tea, holding it under his chin so that the sweet steam rises into his face. "You don't mind?"_ _

__"Of course not." Clint gives him a warm smile. "How about the beginning? I like the beginning."_ _

__"Me, too," Phil says, and Clint, still smiling, turns to the first page._ _

__"The primroses were over," he reads. "Towards the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed among the dog's mercury and oak-tree roots."_ _

__Phil falls back asleep to the rhythm of Clint's voice and sleeps through the night. In the morning, his fever has broken, and life goes on._ _

__

__**May, 2000** _ _

__The wake isn’t a big gathering, but there's enough crowd and noise in the small house that Clint takes the first possible opportunity to be somewhere else, even just a quick trip for more ice._ _

__He comes back to find Phil and Canton sitting on the front steps, their shadows sharp in the glare of the porch light. They're not talking, just sitting in silence, shoulders pressed together. They don't move or speak as Clint walks up until Canton holds out an arm. Clint sets the cooler on the ground and fishes out three beers before he sits on the step next to Canton._ _

__The summer night hums around them as they drink their beers, and Canton drapes his arm around Clint’s shoulders._ _

__After a long, quiet moment, Canton starts laughing._ _

__“Boy, he trained you good, didn’t he?” he says to Clint. “Go out for ice and come back with beer.”_ _

__Clint snorts. “I got ice, too.”_ _

__“Pop would have gone out for ice and come back with next week’s groceries,” Phil says, and Canton laughs again._ _

__“Didn’t he do that, once?” Clint puts in. “I feel like that happened.”_ _

__Phil nods. “He did. It was... Who’s birthday was it?”_ _

__“It was this one,” Canton says, gesturing at Clint with his beer. “You were turning ten, I think, and somebody forgot to get ice cream. So Leroy went to the store and came back with something like four gallons of ice cream, and a case of pop, and... I forget what else.”_ _

__“Oh, he had a whole trunk full of stuff,” Phil says. “Chips, apples, a loaf of bread. I think... Was that when he got that bean bag chair?”_ _

__“It was! I forgot about that.” Clint’s memory of his tenth birthday party is mostly a blur of sugar-high happiness, but he remembers sitting in that ridiculous chair, wearing a cardboard crown, and tearing into the biggest pile of presents he’d ever seen in his life._ _

__“He wanted it to be perfect,” Canton says. He looks at Clint, smiling. “You would have been happy with a cupcake and a pat on the head.”_ _

__Clint shrugs. “Maybe if it was a _chocolate_ cupcake.”_ _

__Canton laughs and squeezes Clint’s shoulder. “Easy to please. That’s why you were the favorite.”_ _

__"Was not."_ _

__“You so were. He was a sucker for those big blue eyes.” Phil elbows Canton. “So is dad.”_ _

__“Those Barton blues are a curse on the world. God help us when baby Katie learns to use ‘em,” Canton grumbles. Leaning on Clint’s shoulder, he levers himself up from the steps. “Speaking of which, I’m going to go act like a normal grandpa and hold my granddaughter.” He hauls the cooler with him toward the door, adding, “You boys stay out here as long as you need to.”_ _

__“Thanks, dad,” Phil says quietly, sliding over to fill the vacated space beside Clint._ _

__When the door closes behind Canton, Clint says, “He’s not doing so good, is he?”_ _

__Phil sighs. “Not as well as he wants everyone to think, anyway.”_ _

__“Yeah.” Clint leans into the warmth of Phil at his side, still and steady as a star in the night sky. He can feel the tension in Phil’s shoulders, see the exhaustion in his shadowed face. “How are you holding up?”_ _

__“I... don’t really know.” He gives Clint a tired smile. “Barney and Laura chased me out here because they weren’t sure I’d sat down once in the last three days.”_ _

__“I’m not sure you have, either.” Clint pauses, then goes on, “It’s okay to stop moving, y’know. I know it’s... I know you feel like you’ll fall apart if you do, but it’s okay. You don’t have to keep everything together.”_ _

__Since Clint was five years-old, Phil has been his hero, his unwavering constant, equal parts big brother, best friend, and eternal infatuation. The look Phil gives him now is lost and unguarded, and Clint is suddenly, sharply reminded that his hero is human, that the man next to him is living and breathing and _real_._ _

__After a moment, Phil asks, “What about you?”_ _

__Clint shakes his head. “What about me?”_ _

__“He was your father, too,” Phil says, and that catches in Clint’s chest like a hook on his ribs. “I’ve been so busy worrying about everything else that I haven’t... Are you okay?”_ _

__“I’m... I miss him. I’m gonna miss him.” A warm breeze stirs the grass and skates over Clint’s skin. “I just keep thinking, y’know, about how short life is, how fast things are over. Is that dumb?”_ _

__Phil shakes his head. “No. It’s not.”_ _

__“I mean, I coulda got hit by a car coming back from the convenience store,” Clint says, and Phil flinches. “I coulda died in the middle of the road twenty minutes ago, a mile away.”_ _

__“Well, that’s going to cover my nightmares for a while.”_ _

__“Sorry, I just... With Leroy, we knew it was coming, we had time, but what if we don’t?” He braces a hand on the porch behind him and tilts back, looking up at the sky. “If I’d died on the way back here, what would I miss? I’d never shoot a bow again or finish school or read any of those books I’ve got piled up. I wouldn’t be drinking this beer or sitting here right now, with you.”_ _

__Phil smiles. “Now that would be a shame.”_ _

__The impulse that leaps in Clint’s heart isn’t new, but the grief and summer heat give it fresh urgency. It’s either the best idea Clint’s ever had or the worst, but it’s one he’s had for a long time. Anyway, he figures, life is short._ _

__It’s such a short distance to reach Phil’s mouth, and Clint wonders how many times they’ve been this close, how many moments he’s let pass when all he had to do was... this._ _

__Phil’s lips are dry and still, and there’s a long, awful second when Clint thinks he’s made a mistake. Then they part like a promise, and Clint feels fingers curl around the back of his neck. Life may be short, but the heartbeats that fill the span of that deep kiss seem infinite._ _

__Nothing but the need for air can make Clint pull away, but he does, eventually, resting his forehead against Phil’s. His chest aches as he breathes in and out, and it feels like the world is spinning around him, like the only steady points in his existence are those small places where skin touches skin._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Phil says. He draws back slowly, leaving Clint’s blood singing. “I shouldn’t have... I’m sorry.”_ _

__Clint raises an eyebrow. “Are you apologizing for kissing me back or for not doing it sooner?”_ _

__“For... I’m...” Phil blinks in confusion, and Clint can’t help but laugh._ _

__“You feel like a dirty perv right now, don’t you?”_ _

__Phil sighs. “Yes. Yes, I do.”_ _

__“You know I’m not five years-old, anymore.” Clint pauses, but there’s no point in doing this halfway. “I’ve been in love with you since I was thirteen,” he says. “I’ve thought about this. Really thought about it. And I’ve thought of every stupid reason you’re gonna come up with to say no, so don’t start. If you don’t want to, then tell me you don’t want to, and that’ll be it.”_ _

__Phil holds his gaze, close enough for Clint to see the lines of darker blue in his eyes. There’s a peace in knowing that, whatever happens next, he won’t lose anything but hope, but his heart is still pounding. He can almost watch the thoughts fighting in Phil’s head, and he almost misses the moment when the fighting stops, half a second before Phil says, “Fuck it.”_ _

__It’s the second kiss of many, of thousands, and it’s free of all hesitation and doubt._ _

__

__**December, 2000** _ _

__There are a hundred reasons this is a bad idea, but, as the months pass, it gets harder to think of them._ _

__Clint is stretched sideways across the bed with a book, making notes, while Phil puts away his laundry. He’s been spending more time here, in Phil’s room, studying and talking and, more and more often, sleeping. Just sleeping. It’s a slow adjustment, both of them inching steadily closer together, and every step seems to make the whole thing better._ _

__"Can I ask you something? "_ _

__"Of course."_ _

__"It's kinda personal," Clint says, and Phil smiles._ _

__"I honestly can't think of anything you don't already know."_ _

__He's not thinking hard enough, apparently, because the question Clint asks is, "The first time you, y’know, had sex... What happened?"_ _

__Phil snorts. "Have I really never told you about that?" Clint shakes his head. "Oh my god. You probably don’t remember Ray Eckhart.”_ _

__Clint thinks for a moment, then makes a face. “The creepy guy with the piercings?”_ _

__“He wasn’t creepy.”_ _

__“He was a little creepy.”_ _

__“He was intense. And you were seven.”_ _

__“Fine. So Mister Intense punched your v card. What was that like?” Clint has his chin propped on one hand, looking genuinely curious, and Phil can’t help but blush a little._ _

__“I was sixteen, and he had a minivan and a tongue ring. It was mind-blowing,” Phil answers. Clint laughs, and Phil throws a pair of rolled-up socks at his head. “What about you?”_ _

__Still laughing, Clint asks, “What about me?”_ _

__“What was your first time like?” Aside from occasional pleas for advice, Clint’s never talked much about dating. He has friends, a social circle, and he’s always kept Phil informed of the little joys and dramas in his life, just not about that particular joy._ _

__Clint shrugs and looks down at his book, picking idly at one corner. “I dunno. I’m kinda hoping you’ll be there when it happens.”_ _

__Phil stops dead and stares at Clint. “You’re kidding.” Clint shrugs again. “Never? With anybody?”_ _

__“I mean, I tried. I just... Something always got in the way, or it didn’t feel right, or I couldn’t... y’know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, and Phil raises his eyebrows. “It just never happened.”_ _

__“So... nothing? No hand jobs, oral, anything?”_ _

__“I, uh, I went down on Karen, when we were dating,” Clint says. “It was... She was great. I really liked her, and we were having a good time. Only, y’know, a certain participant refused to join the party, so I was distracted. Embarassed. And she... Well, nobody really got anywhere.”_ _

__“I’m sorry.” Phil lies down on the bed beside Clint, shoulder to shoulder._ _

__“It’s not a big deal,” Clint says. “I mean, this way I get to have my first time with the person I always wanted it to be with.”_ _

__Something hot trembles in Phils chest, and he swallows. “Really?”_ _

__Clint grins. “Really really.”_ _

__He leans in for a kiss, and Phil savors the taste of his tongue, of toothpaste and ginger tea. In the weeks between this kiss and the first, sex is something Phil hasn’t allowed himself to think of. There is still too clear a connection in his mind between this beautiful, broad-shouldered young man and the little boy he swore to look out for._ _

__“So I was thinking,” Clint says. His lips brush the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. No class, no work. Maybe we could... stay up late, tonight?”_ _

__Phil’s pulse is loud in his ears. “Are you sure?”_ _

__“Yes.” Clint kisses him again. “Yes.”_ _

__Gently, slowly, Phil rolls Clint onto his back, stretching out over him. Not looking, Clint shoves his book off the bed, and it hits the ground with a thump. Phil sucks at the soft, sweet curve of Clint’s neck, and Clint arches into him, tugging impatiently at the hem of his shirt. Phil strips off his own shirt and slides his hands slowly up Clint’s sides, feeling the muscles and warm skin move under his palms._ _

__It steals his breath to think that no one's ever done this, that the planes of Clint's body are uncharted lands, and the privilege of surveying them is Phil's alone. He pulls the shirt off, tossing it aside, and lowers his mouth to Clint's nipple._ _

__Clint makes a sound of pleasure in the back of his throat and rolls his hips up into Phil’s. There’s no hurry, no need to rush, and Phil takes his time mapping out the contours of Clint’s chest and stomach, traversing steadily lower until his lips drag along the worn waistband of Clint’s thin cotton pants. He bites down, sucking at the soft skin, and Clint gasps._ _

__“Oh, _fuck_.”_ _

__“Well, that might be jumping the gun a little bit.”_ _

__The muscles of Clint’s stomach move as he laughs, vibrating against Phil’s mouth, and he imagines that he can taste Clint’s delight. “So are you planning to just kiss me until something happens?”_ _

__Phil moves back up and kisses the curve of Clint’s throat. “I was planning to suck your cock.”_ _

__Clint swallows. “Oh. Or that. We could do that.”_ _

__“Seems like a good place to start,” Phil says, smiling against Clint’s mouth. He hasn’t let himself think about sex with Clint, and this is still somehow everything he dreamed of, everything he’s _ever_ dreamed of. He gives Clint a long, deep kiss and pulls away. “Sit back against the pillow.”_ _

__Clint scrambles to obey, and Phil crawls in between his spread knees. This isn’t Phil’s first anything, but the way Clint is watching him with dark, hungry eyes makes him feel like everything is new and unknown. His fingers slide under the edge of Clint’s pants, and Clint breathes in deep._ _

__“Okay?” Phil asks, and Clint nods, licking his lips._ _

__“So is this... I mean, do you, y’know, _like_ doing this?”_ _

__Phil sits back on his feet. “I’m not sure what the antecedent to _this_ is.”_ _

__“Y’know, like...” Clint waves his hands vaguely, and Phil can see a blush rising on his neck. “I just mean... sucking cock.”_ _

__Phil doesn’t mean to laugh, but he’s too surprised to catch the sound before it tumbles out. “Are you asking if I like to suck cock?”_ _

__The blush spreads up Clint’s face, and he stammers, “It’s just... I mean... I don’t want you to do it if you don’t, y’know, like it.”_ _

__Still laughing, Phil leans down to press a kiss into the curve of Clint’s stomach where the trail of hair begins to thicken and spread. “In general, yes,” he says. “At the moment, oh god yes.”_ _

__Clint lets out what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of relief. “Oh. Okay. Good.”_ _

__“Though, if you make a habit of asking that when someone’s about to pull off your pants, it might be related to why you haven’t gotten laid,” Phil points out, and Clint knocks a knee against his shoulder._ _

__“Asshole. I’m starting to think you’re all talk and no game.”_ _

__Phil doesn’t answer, just gets a hold of Clint’s waistband and slowly pulls the cotton pants down over his hips. Clint’s cock is flushed, beginning to rise, and it’s all Phil can do not to stop and swallow him down right then. Instead, he finishes stripping off the pants and catches hold of Clint’s knee, trailing kisses and bites down the inside of his thigh._ _

__“I never told anybody,” Clint says. “Y’know, about... you, about how I felt. I guess I thought it was like how you’re not supposed to tell when you make a wish. Like, if I said it out loud, it would never come true.”_ _

__Phil sucks at the tender crease of Clint’s hip, and Clint groans. Suddenly, something occurs to Phil, and he stops. “Oh my god.”_ _

__Clint sits up startled. “What?”_ _

__“Oh my god,” Phil repeats, resting his head against Clint’s knee._ _

__“What? What is it?”_ _

__“What are we going to tell dad and Barney?”_ _

__Clint stares at him blankly, then drops back into the pillow. “Oh my god.”_ _

__“Dad’s going to kill me.” Phil runs a hand over his face. “No, wait. Barney’s going to beat the shit out of me, _then_ dad’s going to kill me.”_ _

__“No. No, they’re not, because you didn’t do anything,” Clint says. Phil sits back and spreads his hands to indicate the situation in general, and Clint rolls his eyes. “Anything illegal or wrong. I’m an adult, in every possible sense. You’re not, like, taking advantage of me, or something.”_ _

__Phil sighs. “You’re still ten years younger than I am.”_ _

__“Nine, and emotionally I’m at least, like, twenty-eight, so that’s only three years.” Clint gives him an expectant grin, like that logic wraps everything up neatly, and Phil laughs._ _

__“Okay, sure. You explain that to your brother while he’s kicking me in the kidneys.”_ _

__“I will.” Clint draws up his legs, trapping Phil between them. “Now come on and pop my cherry. If you’re gonna get your ass kicked, it might as well be for a reason.”_ _

__“Your compassion is astounding.” Phil leans forward for a kiss, and Clint’s mouth opens for him like the answer to every prayer he never meant to make. He’s never believed in things like destinies and meant-to-bes, but, when he thinks of how his life has been shaped by a five-year-old boy hiding in a garage, how much of who he is has been made by this man, this moment seems inevitable. “I love you.”_ _

__The grin that breaks across Clint’s face is radiant. “Really?”_ _

__“Really really.”_ _

__The grin widens, and Clint pulls him in for another deep kiss. He does get eventually around to sucking Clint’s cock and doing a number of other things that keep them up for most of the night. In the morning, Clint makes pancakes._ _

__

__**May, 2001** _ _

__It’s not exactly unusual for there to be an unexpected knock on the door. They’re not social butterflies, but they do have _friends_. Besides each other, that is._ _

__It’s a little unusual for there to be an unexpected knock on the door at 8 AM on a Saturday, and it’s _definitely_ unusual for Clint, is his pre-coffee haze, to open the door and find a tall, imposing man dressed head to toe in black leather and wearing an honest-to-fucking-god eyepatch._ _

__“Clint Barton,” the man says. It’s not a question, and it’s really unsettling to Clint that a stranger apparently knows his name. A stranger who Clint’s pretty sure... oh, yeah, that’s definitely a gun holster. The man extends his hand with what he probably thinks is a friendly expression. “Nick Fury, deputy director of SHIELD.”_ _

__Clint accepts the handshake on instinct even as his pulse spikes. Canton was always careful to keep work far from home, so Clint’s only met a SHIELD agent once before. It was a... memorable experience, and now the Deputy Director himself has come knocking._ _

__“Um. Hi?”_ _

__Fury smiles. At least, Clint thinks it’s a smile. “Is this a bad time? I know it’s early.”_ _

__Clint blinks, and his brain tries desperately to catch up. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no. No, it’s fine. D’you, uh, wanna come in?”_ _

__“I do. Thanks.” He sweeps past Clint and nods to Phil, who is leaning against the kitchen counter looking even less awake than Clint feels. “PJ Delaware. It’s nice to finally meet you,” Fury says, shaking Phil’s hand firmly. “Had the privilege of working with your daddy, back when I was a junior agent.”_ _

__“It’s only a privilege if you’re on his good side,” Phil drawls, and Fury laughs._ _

__“Ain’t that the truth.” Fury’s genuinely smiling, now, and it’s only a little less intimidating than his not-smiling expression._ _

__Clint shuffles back to retrieve his mug of blessed caffeination and stands just outside of the kitchen alcove, keeping both Fury and Phil in his line of sight. Phil catches his eye and continues sipping placidly at his own coffee._ _

__In a pleasant, sleep-gravelled voice, Phil says, “Not to be rude, Agent Fury, but what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”_ _

__Fury’s smile widens. Instead of answering, he inclines his head toward the coffee pot. “Don’t suppose I could get a cup of that?”_ _

__Phil and Clint exchange a look, and Phil turns to pull a clean mug off of the draining rack by the sink. Silently, he fills it and hands it over to Fury, who gives a nod of thanks in return._ _

__“I appreciate the hospitality,” he says, and Clint can’t tell if he’s being sincere. “I don’t want to interrupt your breakfast, so I’ll get to the point. I’m here with a job offer.”_ _

__“No,” Phil says flatly, and the brow above Fury’s good eye lifts._ _

__“No?”_ _

__“No, I’m not coming to work for SHIELD,” Phil tells him. “You people stole two thirds of my dad’s life, and I’ll be fucked if you’re going to do the same to me.”_ _

__“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Fury replies mildly, “but the offer’s not for you.”_ _

__Both of them turn to look at Clint, who stares blankly back at them until it clicks. “Wait, _me_?”_ _

__Fury shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How long’s the US archery team been begging you to come out for the olympics? Eight, nine years? Heard the youth gymnastics coach came sniffing around, too.”_ _

__Clint rolls his eyes. “So, what? SHIELD needs a new showpony?”_ _

__“I don’t need a show nothing,” Fury says. “What I need is the guy who broke every sharpshooting record in history before he was old enough to vote, apparently without trying. What I need is the guy who, on top of a truly impressive training regimen, just graduated with two degrees, three minors, a nice pile of honors, and no prospects for employment.” Clint shifts his feet and stares down into his coffee, but Fury’s not finished. “What I _need_ , is the guy who stopped an armed robbery in a convenience store last week with... What was it, a tire iron?”_ _

__“Windshield wiper,” Clint mumbles. He glances up at Phil, who is silently regarding his own mug with an expression of blank contemplation._ _

__“Windshield wiper,” Fury repeats, beaming. “Motherfucking windshield wiper.”_ _

__Clint shrugs. “Right place, right time. So what?”_ _

__“So what, mister Barton, is that a man who took down two armed assholes with nothing but a little bit of training at the community rec center and a _windshield wiper_ is a man I want on my side.” Fury gives him a level look and goes on, “Now, I’m sure you know th-”_ _

__“I don’t wanna hurt people,” Clint blurts out, and Phil looks up. Fury just frowns. “I don’t. I mean, I know SHIELD does good work and stuff, but... I don’t wanna kill anybody.”_ _

__“Hope to God you never have to,” Fury says, and Clint gets the feeling that he means it. “I’m not asking you to sign up as a field agent. More like a sort of... provisionary asset.”_ _

__“Meaning what?” Phil asks, and there’s something tense in his voice, like he’s watching for a threat that isn’t there yet._ _

__“Meaning training, resources, and a chance to do some strictly non-violent good in the world.” Fury flashes Clint a smug grin. “Not to mention a decent paycheck and immediate repayment on all your student loans.”_ _

__Clint raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”_ _

__“Seriously.”_ _

__“Wow.” Clint shakes his head. The coffee’s starting to kick in, and questions are piling up in his head. “Okay, but why? If you don’t want me to be a for-real agent, then what do you want me for?”_ _

__“Aside from the comfort of knowing there’s one more ass-kicking do-gooder in the world?” Clint snorts at that, and Fury ignores him. “There’s an on-going project to assemble assets with... unique skills who can respond to extraordinary threats.”_ _

__It’s a hell of a pitch, but Clint’s not sure he buys it. From the stony glare Phil is giving Fury, it doesn’t look like he’s buying, either. “And what?” Clint says. “You figure some white trash punk with good aim is the guy for the job?”_ _

__“Call it an instinct.” Fury smiles. “We’d need you to relocate to our headquarters in New York, at least temporarily, but we can help with all the messy moving details.” He waves his hand vaguely, like uprooting Clint’s entire life is just a routine inconvenience._ _

__“Yeah, I...” Clint means to say no, he really does. He means to dismiss the idea entirely, but something about it snags in his brain and won’t go. He means to say no, but what he says is, “I’m gonna have to think about it.”_ _

__Phil is watching Clint intently, but, if he’s surprised or upset by the answer, it doesn’t show. Fury just gives him an understanding nod and keeps smiling. “Of course you are.” He pulls a thin file folder out of his coat and hands it to Clint. “A lot of this is classified, you understand, but everything you’re cleared to know is in there. Have a look, take your time, and give me a call when you’ve made up your mind. Gentlemen, pleasure to meet you both.”_ _

__With that, Fury heads for the door, but something else pops into Clint’s head. “Hey, but...” Fury turns back, and Clint feels his face heat. “It’s just... I mean, you know we’re totally gay together, right?”_ _

__Phil chokes on his coffee, and Fury shrugs. “Mazel tov. SHIELD offers full benefits to all partners and family, and I hear there’s some nice two-bedroom condos in the area, if you wanted a place with a little home office.”_ _

__The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Clint to gape after him in silence. Belatedly, Clint realizes he’s just had this entire conversation while wearing nothing but Star Wars pajama pants and that there’s a massive hickey on the side of his neck._ _

__Phil clears his throat and says, “It’s my understanding that SHIELD’s always been fairly progressive, at least internally.”_ _

__“Sure. Okay,” Clint replies vaguely. He’s still staring at the closed door, his head spinning._ _

__“You might want to talk to dad before you make a decision,” Phil goes on. “I’m sure things have changed since he retired, but he can give you some idea what to expect.”_ _

__Clint looks back to him, frowning. “So you’re on board with this?”_ _

__Phil’s expression is almost terrifyingly neutral, and he’s gone back to looking at his coffee, not at Clint. The way his hair is sticking up makes Clint want to run his fingers through it, smooth it down, and then muss it up all over again. It’s thinning a little in front, and Clint loves that more than he thinks is probably normal._ _

__“I think you have an amazing amount of potential that would be wasted in a classroom or an office or wherever else you might go,” Phil says mildly, like he’s talking about what they should have for dinner instead of what Clint should do with his life. “If SHIELD can recognize and develop that potential without asking you to compromise yourself and your principles, then I think it’s an option worth considering.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee. “But it’s your decision, obviously. I’m not going to persuade you one way or another.”_ _

__“Potential,” Clint repeats. He opens the folder Fury gave him and flips through pages that look like they came from a corporate employee manual. There’s also cost of living estimates for various areas of New York and a section near the end that’s peppered with heavy, black redactions. “Potential for _what_?”_ _

__“Making a difference,” Phil says. Clint gives him a questioning look, and he shrugs. “I might not like them, but I know dad always believed in their mission. There’s a lot of ways to do good in the world, and SHIELD happens to be one of them.”_ _

__Closing the folder, Clint frowns. “Okay, but what about you?”_ _

__Phil shakes his head. “What about me?”_ _

__“Do you _want_ to move to New York? I mean, our family’s here, and you like your job, so moving would be, like, a huge change. I guess I could split time, maybe, but that would really suck, and who even knows what kind of schedule I’d have, anyway? Like, what does _provisionary asset_ even mean? Is that like a part time thing or whenever they need me, or what?” Clint realizes he’s pacing and stops. “I dunno. I mean, I’m not saying I wanna do it, but I’m not even sure how we’d work it out if I _did_.” He catches a strange smile hovering around the corners of Phil’s mouth. “What?”_ _

__“Don’t worry about the details, just yet,” Phil says. “If you want to go and you want me with you, then I’ll go. We can sort out the rest when we get to it.”_ _

__A warm, bright feeling floods Clint’s stomach, like a swallow of hot chocolate on a cold morning. “Really?”_ _

__Smiling, Phil takes the cooling mug out of Clint’s hand and tops it off with fresh coffee. “Really really,” he says. “I figure you’ve been following me around since you were five. Maybe it’s time I follow you, for a change.”_ _

__Clint doesn’t have an answer beyond the big, dopey grin he can feel breaking on his face, and he looks back down at the folder in the hopes that Phil won’t notice him turning pink. The folder tab has a printed label with the name “Barton, C. F.” and a bigger label across the front with sharp, blocky letters that reads, “Avengers Initiative”._ _

__In the end, Clint takes the offer._ _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Month of Sundays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767971) by [shadowen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen)




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